


gone tomorrow blind

by nezstorm



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, Introspection, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Pre-Slash, Self-Esteem Issues, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-04 22:47:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17907122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nezstorm/pseuds/nezstorm
Summary: He's been a big dumb idiot all his life, after all.Because if he'd been more than that then maybe--





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i don't know where this is going, but i also really want to write more about my sad boah.

_"You big idiot!"_

 

_"Just think, son. Stop asking questions and think!"_

 

_"Our Arthur ain't much the thinking sort..."_

 

_"Just keep quiet and let me do the talking."_

 

_"He ain't got brains, but he sure can shoot."_

 

_"Just shut up and look intimidating, that's what you're best at."_

 

\--

 

Arthur likes to think he reads better than John, but then again teaching John to read was like pulling teeth. It's nothing to be proud of. Neither is his doodling. His fishing skills, his tracking. The way he stumbles over words.

 

He's a good shot though, knows his way around a gun like he knows up from down. Knows how to make men talk and empty their pockets with just a nasty smile.

 

Horses seem keen on him too, but that might just mean they aren't smarter than him, for once, easily swayed by a few sweet words and a treat.

 

He's been a big dumb idiot all his life, after all.

 

Because if he'd been more than that then maybe--

 

\--

 

When Dutch says loyalty, he means blindness, deafness, devotion close to a cult. When he calls for faith it's for them to die at his feet, covering his back.

 

When he has his goddamn plan, that's when they should have stayed stupid, should have followed blind, no questions, no second thoughts, just following behind.

 

When he says jump all they-- all Arthur has to do is fall. _His favored gun more than a son._

 

The stone in his boot he’s throwing away.

 

A bullet already shot.

 

\--

  


_You lose your worth when you start thinking for yourself_ , Arthur thinks bitterly as he watches Dutch, sees the man’s gaze flit over him like over all the rest, no more familiar fond smiles left to spare. There’s something hard in Dutch’s gaze these days, like a wall has been built to ward all of them off.

 

Even Hosea seems unable to climb through it these days, looking more resigned with every fight they have.

 

It _hurts_ , the defeated slump of Hosea’s shoulders, after, the brittle smile he offers when he sees Arthur looking.

 

They both know they’re playing a losing game.

 

\--

 

“You ain’t as tough and dense as all that,” Charles once spat at him, annoyed in the face of Arthur’s coarse bullheadedness.

 

The one time someone admitted to considering Arthur something more than a loaded gun, a triggerhappy fool, and it was thrown like an insult. An accusation, like it was Arthur’s fault that everyone only ever sees him as an empty headed bull. Like acting the way everyone expected him somehow made Arthur a dirty liar.

 

And hearing it from Charles of all people _stung._

 

Who knows, Arthur thinks bitterly, sitting on the shore of Lannahechee, far enough from the camp that he has to strain to hear Uncle’s drunken singing.

 

Who knows if he’s always been a fool or if he acted foolish so many times he’s become one. Arthur doesn’t consider himself to be anything other than a bad man, a killer and a thief, a scavenging coyote.

 

His heart is as violent as it is broken.

 

\--

 

Every second of doubting Dutch and his plans _hurts_. For twenty years Arthur followed him blindly, the father that chose him, that taught him, that cared. He trusted Dutch to never steer him wrong, to have their best interest in mind, to get them out of trouble and keep them safe. Or at least to tell Arthur what to do when things went south.

 

Now Arthur can’t stop second-guessing every words out of Dutch’s mouth and he _knows_ he’s not the only one who sees that things have changed, that Dutch changed, that Dutch’s way isn’t _their_ way anymore. But it doesn’t help to make him feeling anything other than betrayed just as much as it makes _him_ feel the traitor.

 

Who is _he_ to call _Dutch_ a liar? Who is _he_ to accuse the man that took him of the street of being impulsive and deceiving? Who is he, with so much blood on his hands it soaked into his every pore, to suspect Dutch of not caring for the family he gathered?

 

He’s always been the big, dumb idiot, but he’s been Dutch’s big, dumb idiot _son_. His boy. His favored partner in crime right behind Hosea.

 

But Arthur doesn’t have that anymore, Dutch doubting his faith and loyalty, just as much as Arthur has been doubting him.

 

There’s no coming back from this, Arthur knows, no matter what happens next.

 

\--

 

Arthur is drunk when he seeks Charles out, drunk enough to stumble over roots and rubble, and to miss Charles where he’s leaning back against the rundown gate, stopped by the man calling his name. Startled by the hand catching his wrist, pulling him back from wandering even further from camp.

 

“I think you’re heading in the wrong direction,” Charles says, looking Arthur over, “Shouldn’t be going out in this state.”

 

He still has a hold of Arthur’s arm. It makes it even harder to remember the reason Arthur has been looking for him, this single point of contact, searing hot even through the material of Arthur’s shirt.

 

“Been lookin’ for you,” Arthur can tell him that much.

 

Charles quirks an eyebrow in a silent inquiry, pulls Arthur closer when he sways, pushing him to lean back against the gate with him. Shoulder to shoulder.

 

He’s smiling, Arthur thinks, fond or pitying, but not annoyed at least.

 

Makes Arthur lean against him more than the brick at his back. Maybe he’s not drunk enough.

 

“You found me,” Charles prompts.

 

“You found me, more like,” Arthur says right back, fishes in his pockets for a cigaret, suddenly longing to do something with his hands.

 

Charles has a match lit for him before Arthur even thinks to look for his own.

 

They stay like that for a while, Arthur smoking while Charles holds guard, shoulder to shoulder and cold brick right behind. The cool air helps Arthur clear his head and he feels embarrassment flushing his skin. Acting a fool, once again, and in front of Charles of all people. The one man Arthur finds himself always trying to impress.

 

Maybe it’s the lingering burn of whiskey still muddling his thoughts, maybe it’s the fact he’s already acted the idiot he is. Either way he finds himself asking what’s been on his mind for weeks.

 

“What did you mean, back then, before Clemens Point? When you said I ain’t as tough and dense as I act?”

 

“That’s from a while ago,” Charles non-answers.

 

Arthur shrugs, flicks the rest of his cigarette to the ground, considers smoking another to stew the nervous hollow in his chest, “No one ever accused me of being smart.”

 

“They haven’t bothered to _see_ you then,” Charles finally says and what does that even mean? “You’re far smarter than people, than you, give you credit. Kinder, too.”

 

Arthur doesn’t know what to do with an answer like that.

 

“I think you’ve been standing here too long.”

 

“Whatever you say, Arthur,” Charles says, he moves away from the gate, _from Arthur_ \-- gives Arthur’s shoulder a gentle squeeze and Arthur curses the late hour because he can’t see Charles’ eyes like this, can’t begin to understand the look he’s given, “But I think you came looking for me because you already knew my answer. You just wanted to hear the words.”

 

And just like that he’s gone, doing the work Arthur has interrupted and checking the area, protecting them. Making a mess of Arthur’s thoughts too. There’s not enough whiskey in camp to help Arthur understand the mystery that is Charles Smith.

 

\--  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Arthur doesn't think much on what Charles said that night, mostly because he's too focused on questioning the comfortable lack of space they shared, the way Charles’ touch still feels like a branding iron on Arthur's skin.

 

(He checks his wrist, his shoulder when he changes in the morning, half convinced he’d see an eagle feather shaped burn. He tells himself he’s not disappointed at all, when he sees none.)

 

The lingering sense that there was so much in the short moment they spent together that Arthur missed, too ignorant to understand any of it.

 

Too stupid for it.

 

But that's nothing new, isn't it? 

 

Charles must have been too polite of a man to point it out.

 

Too kind for Arthur to be so hung up on.

 

\--

 

Arthur sullied everything he's ever touched, he knows, destructive and devastating like rats with the plague.

 

Sweet Eliza and even sweeter Isaac, the life he dreamed he could have had with Mary. The life Sean  _ might  _ have had if Arthur had been more careful, if he saw beyond Micah’s snake mouth. Even Dutch, his facsimile of a father, turning away from Arthur more with every single day.

 

He's gruff, painfully awkward, finds himself floundering the simplest of social interactions that can't be solved with anything other than threats and brute force.

 

He's a weapon, a bully, a wall.

 

An ugly, sad, old cowboy set in his ways. In this life. Resigned to die from a bullet if not hanged. Trampled down by  _ civ-i-li-za-tion. _

 

He's just as tough and dense as Charles thinks he's not.

 

Yet he fights himself fighting off thoughts of the man as if he had enough worth to dream of gentle hands, gentler words. A sweet smile.

 

\--

 

As distracting as Charles is, the width of his shoulders, his muscles arms as he chops wood, the focus with witch he tracks pray, the efficiency of his hunts, human or animal--

 

As painful as the hollow longing that blossoms in Arthur's chest with every fond “Mornin’ Arthur,” with every commiserating look they share over meals and the campfire, with the growing sense of  _ knowing _ who Charles is--

 

All of it dims when compared to the way Dutch seems to be tearing them apart. He’s not listening to them anymore, to Arthur, to Hosea, John, least of all anybody else. Like he’s become deaf to words that don’t come out of Micah’s mouth.

 

Or Bronte’s.

 

It’s sickening, the ease with which Dutch became infatuated with the idea of scamming the man, yet still following all of the offhand leads that came from that viper’s mouth. 

 

He’s acting like a scorned lover after the disaster that was the trolley station. Has the same look in his eyes as Miss O’Shea, whenever she finds the energy to fight for her misplaced love, for what she’s deemed her due. 

 

Arthur pities them both, but of the two of them, of those two broken hearts, Molly’s idea of revenge is the kinder one.

 

Dutch sulks by blood spatters and recoil on Arthur’s arms. 

 

\--

 

Lannahechee calls to Arthur in the predawn hour, beckoning him with a promise of sunrise and quiet, views and animals, plants to sketch.

 

He follows because there seems to be no sleep for him that night, his bend becoming home to too many dark, lingering thoughts.

 

Charles finds him there, sitting cross-legged on the wet ground, hat sat just to the side, with his journal propped on his knee and pencil idling,  tapping softly over the page as Arthur loses himself in thought. 

 

He comes to to a hand on his shoulder, tentative and not meant to spook, but Arthur still jumps a little, much to Charles’ amusement, judging by the curve of his lips.

 

They’re so soft and full, Arthur absently thinks, failing to scowl at the man, they’d be so easy to kiss.

 

“You’re asking to become breakfast to a gator,” Charles gently admonishes looking down at Arthur where he’s still sitting on the ground.

 

He’s standing so close Arthur can feel the warmth of him and did he always run so much hotter than Arthur or has Arthur been sitting out here too long? Were it his dark thoughts that chilled him to the bone? Or was it the distinct lack of Charles that had him so cold?

 

It lures him much like the river did, this promise of comfort, and he’s too exhausted to deny himself this, a simple damning touch, and he find himself listing to the side until he’s pressed against the side of Charles’ leg.

 

He half expects Charles to kick him away or let him fall, but he just stands there, mountain of a man, and allows Arthur to find haven here: on cold, wet ground, the weight of the world threatening to trample him every way he looks that isn’t here, with Charles’ supportive warmth seeping through the coarse material of his pants, with gentle fingers combing Arthur’s hair back.

 

“You’d kill the gators before they’d even think to get me,” Arthur belatedly replies.

 

Charles’ laugh is a short huff of breath, but there’s no denial there. Just a brief tug on a strand of Arthur’s hair.

 

Arthur could fall asleep like this, lulled simply by Charles’ presence at his side, by the gentle admission of Charles not pushing him aside. 

 

He hasn’t felt this safe in a long time.

 

He desperately wishes it could last. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's short, but that's all i think i have left to give.   
> (wonder if i could write a modern story, hm)

In all the sleepless nights spent staring at the flaking ceiling in his room at Shady Bell or looking over the Lannahechee with the crease on his cheek where he pressed it into the material of Charles’ jeans, every time he caught Hosea storming away from Dutch or the other way, with Micah lurking a few feet away-- 

 

Arthur thought of ways to save their--  _ his _ \-- family from certain death. All the routes he could take. He’d wagered who would follow if he left, who would shoot back if he’d cut the snake’s head, ways of saving the girls, John and his family, Charles, everybody else. 

 

Choices that would  _ damn _ him, but he was ready to make. 

 

He’d considered, briefly. For a heartbeat of a thought --  _ HIM _ , dead.

 

\--  

 

Would his hand shake? 

 

Or would he be as detached and cold as Dutch trained him to get?

 

Mind blank, vision tunnel, all the noise dead.

 

Exhale, shoot,  _ red. _

 

\--

  
  


His father is dead, he thinks, as he watches Charles run past him, towards the lawman, then further away. There and gone, if not for the thunder of footsteps close behind.

 

Lenny is dead, he thinks, as he follows after Dutch, hides behind crates, puts even more distance between himself and his stuttering heart.

 

Kieran is gone, too, and why would that hurt? Why did the sight of him make Arthur grit his teeth and aim for head after head? Why would that be on his mind now, where there’s no time to dwell? When Dutch’s back is… so far ahead.

 

Something Arthur can no longer follow.

 

He can’t yell for Arthur to turn back, to come along, to shoot and kill and die in his stead. But even if he did, headless of the lawmen looking for them, Arthur would hear none of it. Ignorant to his father, because his father is dead.

 

Charles could be, too.

 

And Arthur has always been a fool, but he’s always been loyal to the people he chose, to the people who chose him and didn’t that make them even bigger fools? 

 

If this is the moment he’ll take his last breath, so be it, he thinks, running towards the gunshots, but he’ll take it chasing after what’s left of his heart.

 

\--

 

Charles punches him the second after he makes sure they’re safe. Then pulls him into a kiss that hurts just as much if not more, making Arthur think of what ifs, bullets and boats.

 

“You’re a fool!” he whisper-shouts.

 

“So I’ve been told.”

 

Arthur feels dizzy with relief, with the bruise he’s sure is already forming just under his lower lip. With the heat Charles radiates, always a balm to his soul.

 

“Biggest damn idiot I’ve ever known.”

 

Arthur humms in agreement, presses a wet kiss to Charles’ neck. To his throat. To the necklace still secure on his neck despite it all.

 

“I didn’t risk my life to watch you lose yours!” He swats at Arthur, pushes him away, pulls him back, undecided, torn between anger and need.

 

It makes Arthur laugh, a little wet sound he’ll choose to ignore. “Guess I always was tough and dense after all.”

 

“Big dumb idiot,” Charles continues, even as he clutches at Arthur, almost rips his shirt. 

 

“The biggest,” Arthur agrees, stops further complaints with a kiss.

 

Charles lets him so who between them is the fool?

**Author's Note:**

> english ain't my first language yo.


End file.
